


Better Not Pout

by ProfessorFrankly



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:27:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28076199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorFrankly/pseuds/ProfessorFrankly
Summary: Crowley finally catches Aziraphale in the act. No, not that one. The other one. You know, the one involving reindeer? (That's probably not any better.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 40
Collections: Ineffable Husbands Advent Challenge 2020





	Better Not Pout

**Author's Note:**

> This bit of fluff is for the Ineffable Husbands Advent Fic Prompt "Santa (Father Christmas) Encounter". This was a lot of fun. I wrote this back in mid-November, right when I got assigned the prompt for Day 20, and have been biting my fingernails as I watch other stories pop up on Ao3 with the same general premise. Oh, well. I just thought it was a fun concept, and I guess I'm not the only one!

Crowley took another sip of wine—a lovely Spanish red—and thought about Aziraphale.

His angel appeared to be up to something.

The Serpent pursed his lips as he started putting the pieces together. Suspicious hiding of certain goods in a pocket dimension attached to the bookshop’s back room—check.

A dry-cleaning pick up, hastily put away before Crowley could get a good look at it—check.

The rattle of a particular timbre of bell in the shop—check.

The stammering decline of the offer to spend Christmas Eve together—check.

That last one stung, a bit. Since the Apocanot, he and Aziraphale had spent most evenings together, in one flat or the other. They traded stories, drank copious amounts of alcohol, and, in a delightful addition to their usual camaraderie, exchanged kisses. And cuddles. And, on one memorable occasion, not even a week ago, a mutually satisfying hand job. Crowley had high hopes for progression to some sort of complete nakedness at some point.

So when his tentative offer to have a quiet night in on Christmas Eve was met with a stammered, “Oh, of course I’d love to, darling, but I’m afraid perhaps I need to be alone,” he naturally grew suspicious.

Of course, he could be overthinking things. It could very well be that his angel needed an evening to himself. After all, Aziraphale could be something of an introvert, and they had been pretty much living in each others’ pockets.

But Crowley thought perhaps there was another explanation. An old explanation. An old suspicion Crowley had never been able to truly confirm one way or another.

He thought, perhaps, that Aziraphale not only inspired the many myths of Saint Nicholas, but acted the part, when the occasion called for it.

Crowley remembered Nicholas. He was a good man. Aziraphale spent a great deal of time with him, gently encouraging his generosity, pointing out the good he could do in the world, and sharing ideas about how to help the impoverished children Nicholas encountered in his native Turkey. 

Alas, the man who became Saint Nicholas would not live to see his legacy. The man was, distressingly, mortal. However, the idea of helping children, to make their lives a little richer, if only for a night, persisted.

Crowley never did see a reason to interfere with that. And, anyway, he had a soft spot for children.

Still, as the years moved on and the legend of Saint Nicholas grew, Crowley found himself turning a deliberately blind eye to what his angel might have been doing on Christmas night. Some years, this required serious effort. There were only so many times Crowley could pretend not to see the collection of delicate, tasty treats from around the world Aziraphale had on his table Christmas morning, or fail to notice the reindeer droppings on the street in front of the bookstore. (The latter task took on the sheen of the ludicrous next to the motorized vehicles of the twentieth century.) 

However, Crowley thought this year might be different. Could be different. Should be different. They were on their own side now, and part of the joy in being on their own side? The demon didn’t have to turn a blind eye any longer, unless he wanted to.

Did he want to? Crowley thought for a moment. He could let Aziraphale have his little secret—if, indeed, Crowley was right—or he could find him.

No question, really, and all he stood to lose was his dignity if he was wrong.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

Crowley set his wine down, sobered up completely, and snapped his fingers, converting his standard black outfit into a red elf costume with black accents. Another snap, and he had a bottomless bag of presents. Closing his eyes, Crowley centered his senses on Aziraphale, and snapped again.

He found himself in a sleigh hovering just above the ground. Aziraphale sat in the front seat, wearing a battered Father Christmas costume and holding the reins to a full team of eight reindeer. To his credit, Aziraphale barely jumped at his new addition.

“Oh, I should have known you would find me,” the angel fretted. 

“Of course,” Crowley said. “Surprised you even tried to shut me out.”

“It’s just that this is such an angelic sort of thing to do.” Aziraphale twisted the reins into his left hand. “I didn’t want you to get into trouble by coming with me.”

“Angel,” Crowley tipped his dark glasses down and looked at the love of his life. “Our side, remember? Where you go, I go. And look!” He opened his stylish bag. “I brought presents.”

Aziraphale looked at him for a moment, his expression going soft. “So you did, foul fiend.” He leaned forward and chastely kissed Crowley’s cheek, making the tops of the demon’s ears turn red. “Of course.” He cleared his throat and took the reins in both hands. “Best hold on to something, then; we’ve got to get a wiggle on.”

With a whoosh and a laugh, the pair set off to deliver gifts to those most in need of them. They chased the sun, stopping by homes that Aziraphale had on some sort of mental list that Crowley didn’t bother to address. He’d stop on a roof, hop out with gifts, miracle them into place, then hop back in and head out to the next spot. Curiously, he didn’t hit every house. When Crowley asked, Aziraphale smiled gently. 

“Most families help make this magic happen all by themselves, no miracles required,” the angel said, steering his team gently to the next destination. “But some need a little help. Sometimes it’s just financial. Others need a true miracle. Front Office signed off on liberal use of miracles at Christmas a thousand years ago, and I might push the limits, a little. But we go to every house that could use the lift of a gift, or a good thought, or even just a bite of good chocolate. We spread joy tonight, old friend.” Aziraphale slanted Crowley a look from under pale lashes. “Not quite a demon’s idea of a good time.”

“Eh, I’m retired, me,” Crowley said, stretching long legs over the front of the sleigh. “Can think of worse things to do.”

Aziraphale chuckled, and they came to their next stop.

It required a liberal use of miracles, and Crowley nearly fell out of the sleigh at one point, but by dawn in London, they’d returned to the bookshop. Aziraphale let the reindeer go, sent the sleigh back to wherever it lived while not in use, and invited Crowley inside.

“After all, dear, you need your present. And I do need help getting this costume off,” he said coyly.

“Happy Christmas to me,” Crowley said, and followed his angel.

Later, there would be questions, and conversations, and another exchange of stories. Aziraphale would talk about Saint Nicholas, and the inspirational miracle that turned the man into a symbol of generosity. He would explain how he assumed the role of Santa Clause whenever the need was greatest, and in 2020, the need had been very great indeed.

But in the moment, as Crowley started to unwrap his angel, they needed only to bask in their love for each other, and humanity.

  
  



End file.
